Letters to No One
by rosemarried
Summary: John and Sherlock both express they're feelings and thoughts through letters neither think the other will ever read. Post-Reichenbach. Sort of Johnlock.
1. Sherlock

**For the 5, 10, 20, 50, 75, 100 Fandoms challenge by Shermione. A short drabble in two parts. Enjoy and review! **

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John,

You'll probably never find this letter. In fact, I don't think I really want you to find this letter. I've mostly written it for myself, I think. I just needed to see these words down on paper. But if I'm writing this and hiding it somewhere you might find it, doesn't that mean that some part of me really does want you to find it so you'll know and understand? Never mind, that's besides the point.

This letter is an apology, John. I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you, I never wanted any of this to happen. I fell for Moriarty's mind games, he was able to get to me. He promised he would burn me, he said that eventually he would kill me. He was right. He did burn me and even though he is dead now, I have no doubt that my death will be caused by him. But I'm not saying it is his fault. It's mine. When you thought I had died, I should have told you. I should have been open with you and told you I was alive but more time passed and the longer it went the more I told myself that it would be better to do it the next day, that you just needed one more day before my apparently coming back from the dead wouldn't give you a heart attack. I was really just trying to protect you, but I feel like I might have done the opposite. So I'm sorry, truly very sorry. For everything.

If you ever find this John, I'm still at 221B Baker St. I won't come out into the open until you've put this letter down, though. I'll let you see me once I know you've finished it. Because trust me, if your reading this, I know and I'm watching and waiting.

Sherlock

Sherlock reread his words, and knew they didn't sound like him. God, they sounded nothing like how he would say them to his face, but maybe that was just it. He would never be able to tell John the whole truth right to his face. He couldn't even explain why he tricked him, why he tried to convince him he was a fraud before he "died" in his letter. But every word of it was true. He folded the letter and stuck it in an envelope. He wrote John's name on the outside and propped it up on his chair. He stared at it for a long time before making his way up the stairs and going to sit on John's old bed, wondering if he would ever get to see him again.


	2. John

Sherlock,

It's been a long time since we've talked. I keep going through that day in my head. I wonder, is there anything I could have said to stopped you? Could I have really done anything? I don't think I could have. You sounded on the verge of tears on the phone, you were too far gone for me to have helped you at all by then. I should have done something sooner. I should have noticed that you were depressed before that. That's what it was, wasn't it? All the pieces fell into place only afterwards and sometimes I hate myself for not being, well, you.

I think I'm finally ready to return to 221B. I don't know how long I can stay in there, but I think I can go there just for a while, to look around and reminisce. I think I need it, to see our old flat and to remember you then. My therapist said it would help, but for the longest time I simply couldn't face it. I have to though, if I'm ever going to move on. Not that I'm going to forget you - I don't think that's even possible.

Honestly, I'm not even sure why I'm writing this. I don't know why I do anything anymore. I come and visit your grave every day if I can manage it, I sit and talk to you, I think about you constantly. The logical part of me keeps telling me that you're dead, that when I talk to you you can't hear me and that you will never read this letter, or even know how much you mean to me. But the other part of me, the emotional part I guess it is, wants to do this anyway in some vain hope that somehow, you'll know. But you already did know, didn't you? You knew every bloody thought that ever crossed my mind. I used to find that disturbing; now it brings a smile to my lips.

I miss you, Sherlock. I miss you so much, you can't even begin to imagine. I'd say that I'll see you again someday, but you'd only scoff at me so I won't.

John

John lay the stark white envelope on Sherlock's grave, propped up against his shiny new headstone. 2 months dead... John almost couldn't believe it. Wasn't it just yesterday Sherlock had introduced himself, just assuming John would move in with him? 'The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.'. And only a few hours ago that Jim Moriarty had held him hostage in a dark pool, threatening to blow him up. He took a deep, shuddering breath and lay a hand against the cool marble. Every time he visited, he ended up unable to speak for the effort of holding back tears. He could only hope that it would get better with time. He spent a few minutes staring at the letters carved into the headstone before turning and making his way back to the street, to call a cab and bring him to the flat that had lain untouched for 2 months. The flat where, little did he know, Sherlock Holmes was rushing to this instant, praying he got there first after having read the letter John was certain he would never get...


End file.
